Baby Duty
by humanveil
Summary: Lucius appeases his pregnant wife. Lucissa, Post-Marauders Era.


"You coming?"

Lucius opens his mouth to answer Regulus' question, only there's a bang in the next second, the noise accompanied by a loud, mocking laugh and followed by the strained, high-pitched voice of his wife.

"I don't think so," he says slowly, trying not to sigh as the voices grow louder.

Severus is smirking at him from the doorway, his expression one of poorly veiled amusement. "Baby duty?" he asks, and Lucius does sigh, now.

"It's Bella's bloody fault," he mutters. There's another yell in the distance, and though the words are muffled, the irritation in Narcissa's voice is clear. "She keeps riling her up."

Another bang sounds, but the voices finally cease, the yelling replaced by soft laughter and heavy footsteps. Lucius imagines that Narcissa has disappeared back to the sunroom—as is common, these days. His suspicion is only confirmed when Bellatrix appears at Severus' side a moment later, her mirthful face poking up above his shoulder.

"You might want to go deal with that," she tells Lucius.

"Must you?" he asks. There's an edge to his voice—annoyance mixed with frustration. He doesn't mind Bellatrix, but seeing her continuously taunt Narcissa is stirring a nasty, protective instinct inside of him. "Wouldn't it be easier to simply leave her be?"

"And have no fun?" Bellatrix asks. "Never."

Lucius sighs again, but stands from his seat, his hands brushing over the fabric of his outer robe. "Give Rosier my regards," he tells Severus. "I'll try and make it to the next one."

Severus nods, though he still looks mildly amused. "Good luck," he offers, and Lucius dips his head in acknowledgement as he moves away from the sitting room and down toward the stairwell.

He finds Narcissa in the sunroom, as expected. It's planted on Malfoy Manor's lowest floor, the walls made up of high windows that span from floor to ceiling, their stills painted a pristine white. It is one of the lighter rooms of the Manor—the furniture coloured with whites and greys, mixed every now and then by the metallic shine of silver and a flash of deep, dark green.

Narcissa lies atop the cushioned surface of a fainting couch, her pale complexion and light robe a stark contrast to the velvety, moss green beneath her. Her forearm is flung over her eyes, shielding the sun from her face as the rest of her body basks in it. Lucius stares through the window for a moment, admiring her beauty even now, and then reaches to pull on the door handle.

Narcissa turns immediately, a fight ready on her tongue, but it dies when she spots him. She relaxes back against the cushion, waits for him to walk to her before speaking. "I thought you were going out."

Lucius waves his hand, dismissive. "Rosier will live," he says. "His gatherings are hardly as important as you."

Narcissa's mouth curls, the gentle blue of her eyes sparkling when she looks to Lucius. "I imagine I'll be hearing quips about baby duty in the days to come?"

Lucius huffs, his hand resting on Narcissa's shoulder, motioning for her to sit forward so he can slip behind. Baby duty—the long running joke on his involvement with Narcissa's pregnancy. Severus had said it first, but it'd spread through their social circle quickly enough.

It'd been mildly amusing, Lucius had thought, right up until they'd used it to mock him. Severus, at least, had meant it in good humour, though the same could not be said for the others. Lucius knows they think him slacking—think his wife's request that he stay home and help sometimes is something to be ashamed off, something to make fun off. Something that makes him weak.

Missing tonight won't help. Rosier's gatherings almost always ended in an impromptu raid, and those are things Lucius is expected to attend, but. Well. There is nothing to it, he thinks. After all they'd been through to achieve a successful pregnancy, Lucius' priorities lie in securing the continuation of the Malfoy line. If that involved missing a meeting or two, then so be it.

"It's a ridiculous term," Lucius mutters, settling down behind her and wrapping his arms around her widened waist. It's a tight fit, but with Narcissa seven months pregnant, a tight fit is something he's growing quite accustomed to.

"You could always rip out their tongues," Narcissa muses, and a smirk tugs at Lucius' mouth. Her voice is soft, innocent—but the way it's said makes it clear to Lucius just what she'd been thinking of before he'd found her.

He trails a hand across the curve of her stomach, his touch uncharacteristically gentle. "What did she do this time?"

He hears Narcissa huff, can imagine the way her lips purse. "Same as always," she says, and her voice takes on a tone similar to Bellatrix's. "I'm fat and ungraceful and we'll need to expand the corridors if I wish to move freely."

Lucius sighs, his chin burrowing into the crook of Narcissa's shoulder, his nose nudging the curve of her neck. He breathes in the scent of her hair, revels in the familiar smell of vanilla and coconut and something entirely Narcissa. "She's only jealous," he murmurs, "that you'll have a child while she's left in a loveless marriage with a man more interested in his younger brother's whereabouts than he is her."

Narcissa laughs, quiet and breathy. She dips her head back, looks at Lucius over her shoulder. "Is that so?"

"Mm." Lucius' hands work in slow, circular motions across the mound of Narcissa's stomach, his fingertips tapping a mindless pattern against the fabric of Narcissa's robe. "Think about it. She'll get nothing, while you'll get to cosset our baby," he says. "Spoil him." He meets Narcissa's gaze, a knowing look on his face. "Dress him up."

Narcissa's smile returns, and Lucius leans forward to press his mouth to hers for a brief moment. Truthfully, he doesn't think Bellatrix wants children—he wouldn't trust her with one, at any rate—but it's an easy theory to spin, and talk of their future child almost always managed to bring Narcissa out of one of her moods.

"Keep going," Narcissa tells him.

Lucius lets his eyes fall shut as he relaxes under the glow of the sun. "Think of how cute he'll be," he says, words a lazy drawl. "Small and chubby and blonde. We'll have the best looking baby in Britain."

"Of course we will," Narcissa murmurs. "He's my child."

"Taking all the credit, hm? Typical." His words are playful, his mouth upturned in an amused smirk. He trails a hand up above Narcissa's body, settles it in her hair, threads his fingers through pale blonde locks. "We'll get to watch him grow," Lucius continues softly. "He'll likely wreak havoc once his magic manifests."

"Your fault," Narcissa says, and Lucius chuckles.

"Will I be blamed for everything bad?"

"Yes."

"Wonderful," he answers. "In that case, I hope he makes your life a living hell."

Narcissa's hands cover Lucius', her fingers linking with his. There is movement beneath their touch; a kick from their unborn child. They both smile.

"I suppose it's worth it," she says, and all signs of her earlier irritation are gone. "But if you think I'm doing all the work—"

"I know," Lucius says quickly, cutting the rant off before it can come. "I know," he says again, and his face is buried back against her neck, his lips leaving damp, featherlight kisses against the flesh. "I help, or you'll have my head."

"And a number of other body parts, too."

Lucius grins—flirty and fleeting. "That wouldn't be enjoyable for either of us," he says.

"I'll live," Narcissa tells him. "You're not that great, darling."

"Not that—" Lucius cuts himself off, slips out from beneath Narcissa with careful movements. When he settles back down, he's on top of her, a knee settled next to either of her thighs and his hands flat above her shoulders. "Do I need to remind you?"

Narcissa simpers up at him, her face framed by the pale gold of her hair. It looks not unlike a halo, Lucius muses, and he can't help but think how utterly inaccurate that is.

"I do love a man who can prove himself," Narcissa murmurs, and she's barely finished the sentence before Lucius has captured her mouth. His actions are more forceful, now. They carry intent—a promise of what's to come.

By the time he's unfastening Narcissa's robe, any and all thoughts on gatherings and annoying sisters are well and truly gone.


End file.
